Sudden Traveler

by Sarah Hall

  Cleo linked her arm through Dilly’s and stepped her toward their brothers. Peter and Dominic kissed Dilly on both cheeks and resumed their conversation, which sounded political, something to do with a war in Venezuela. They were disagreeing, amiably. Cleo began a funny anecdote—inserting it elegantly into the discussion—about when she had flown to the wrong airport in Venezuela, the plane landing in a field full of little horses, and getting a lift to Barquisimeto with some chaps who it turned out were not really all that savory. Peter laughed quietly, uncontrollably; Cleo knew exactly her audience. Dominic looked as if he was gearing up for a story of his own, but he probably knew it wouldn’t compete.

  The four Quinn siblings, standing together in a group. For a few nice moments, it felt to Dilly like a completed puzzle. It hadn’t felt that way for a while, not since things with Rebecca, which Mummy described as one of the worst things to have happened to the family, her attachment, her over-attachment, to the baby. Some of the words that had been said, by Rebecca when she was very upset, and also by Mummy, afterward, had echoed in Dilly’s head a long time. Congenital. Abusive. Your son’s twisted priorities and your bloody eugenics—now it’s fine to destroy life? Dilly didn’t know how people could believe in exact opposites where humans were concerned. Mummy could be quite fierce about her sons, but sometimes Peter did need their help, actually, where emotions were concerned. It was awful when things, when people, went wrong. It hadn’t really happened since their father had left, and that had been Mummy’s predominant brown study, until Rebecca. The greatest betrayal of all was to disaffiliate.

  Dilly’s tummy hurt. There was a sound in her ears that happened when hunger got to a certain stage, a kind of humming generator noise. She could hear Mummy talking loudly, saying something about that naughty Peter not being in a proper jacket, though Mummy quite liked it when Peter arrived at Northumberland Road off-duty, in his kit. Dilly kept her eyes busy and away from the zone where their gazes might meet. In a moment Mummy would probably come over, say something remonstrative, and want to introduce Dilly to the magazine lady. There would be one of those rapid, awkward, whispery interrogations about where Dilly had been, mousing off again, and then she’d have to pretend to be poised and ready for an interview, which wasn’t a proper interview, but a kind of cultural conversation test that might lead to some work, or at the very least to a temporary internship that might lead to some work. Dilly had read the arts section of the papers at the weekend, but couldn’t remember anything interesting. She had half an idea for an article about the color yellow, how yellow was being reclaimed by women after years of being unfashionable. Also color therapy, how yellow had a certain effect, psychologically, in relation to mental health. Dilly hadn’t quite worked the proposition out yet, but if she started talking, hopefully things would expand. The room was stuffy and a bit smoky and she felt sick. It was a dangerous point; she knew that from the past. She really did have to eat.

  She slid out of Cleo’s arm, and went over to Edward and Father Muturi. Father Muturi seemed not to have moved an inch from his warm spot. Cleo, he exclaimed, I was hoping to meet you! Actually, I’m Dilly, Dilly said, that’s Cleo there. She pointed. There was a pause. Ah yes, Delia. Father Muturi turned to Edward. She comes to church a lot, this one. A good girl. Yes, I know, said Edward. That’s a splendid shirt, Dilly. I was thinking of wearing it myself. Edward was smiling, eyes pale and bright behind his glasses. His face was purplish-red, which made his hair look extraordinarily white. He must be cooking inside his wool cardigan. It had taken a little while, but Edward had got used to the borrowing arrangements in the house. Only his brown Belstaff was off-limits. It was very expensive, his favorite coat, and couldn’t be risked, especially as the boys were known to misplace coats a lot. Mummy sometimes teased Edward about it, called it his lucky war correspondent’s jacket, but they seemed to have reached an agreement.

  Father Muturi’s plate was empty on the mantleshelf, but Edward still had half a scone, the bottom piece cut very cleanly, with no scattered crumbs. He hadn’t yet spread anything on top. Dilly willed him to see—to feel—how desperate she was. But Edward seemed slower than usual, or less observant, or perhaps he just assumed Dilly had eaten. Father Muturi was coming to the end of his rotation at St. Eligius; he was talking about going home. It would be good to get back to those who really needed him. The English were good citizens, not believers. Well, we shall be very sad to lose you, Edward was saying, though Edward in fact did not attend Mass unless it was Christmas Eve and he’d had a few vodkas. The skin on his face looked so red and shiny it might burst. As she listened to them talk, everything felt very light and thin, and Dilly thought how kind it would be to reach up and prick the surface of Edward’s skin with a pin. Once, twice, on each cheek.

  There was a pause in the conversation. It’s my birthday, Dilly said. Today. It’s today. The men looked a bit startled. She had blurted it, really quite rudely. Today? Father Muturi said. It’s your birthday? Dilly nodded. She glanced at the hovering scone plate, the beautifully baked half-wing that Edward wasn’t eating. Mummy’s laugh whooped out, she’d told a joke, or someone had. That is very wonderful, Father Muturi said. We must do a birthday blessing. Oh, yes, marvellous, said Edward.

  Father Muturi cleared his throat noisily, stepped down off the hearth and into the room. He was a big man and when he moved it was seismic. The heads of the guests turned. Father Muturi held out his hands. He waited, professionally, horrifyingly, for attention, and Dilly began to realise what was happening, what was going to happen. One by one the guests fell quiet. Mummy’s voice was the last to ring, its notes high, its key pervasively major. She stepped round the guests and came closer, positioned herself at the front. Theater at a party was her favorite thing.

  Father Muturi waggled his fingers a little. Edward had removed himself to the side and Dilly was now, inescapably, the main scene. Everyone’s eyes were on her, Mummy’s especially, a concentrated, avian glare. Dilly tried to smile, to look game, and humble, ready to receive. She glanced at Cleo for help, but her sister was whispering something in Peter’s ear and smirking. Dilly looked down at the floorboards. The dizziness was not airy any more, but heavy, located inside her body. She felt like a weight going down into dark water. In London, she had fainted a few times—low on iron—and been given tablets that tasted nasty and turned everything black. It was quite nice, disappearing for a little while. It would be quite nice now. But, of course, there would be the waking, the being helped up, the fuss, and knowing she had been a spectacle, more of a spectacle than she already was.

  Father Muturi set his feet wide apart and placed his hands on Dilly’s head. She felt her knees bend and she sank involuntarily. The hands followed her down, made contact again. Dilly tried to stay still. She tried to be present, but it did feel as if she was being towed away. The priest began. On this very special day, this very special girl who God has given . . . He paused. How many years, please? He was asking Dilly, or anyone. Thirty, called Mummy. She’s thirty! Then, as an aside, Lordy, can you believe it, our Dilly! There were a few claps, though why Dilly didn’t know. The pressure of Father Muturi’s touch lifted. He made an um-ing noise, and seemed confused. Dilly shut her eyes, waited. Was this bad? She thought of Charlie-bo. His giant robe-like coat. His ruined hazel eyes. His terrible predicament: not the fruit joke, but his life. She thought of Rebecca, pictured her, fatally, like the painting of the goat in the Fitzwilliam with its red headband, standing in salt near the water, its amber eyes dying. She’d taken Sam to see it a few weeks ago. She’d wanted to tell him that this was what happened when you didn’t belong any more, when you took the sins of others and were cast out. Like Rebecca. Rebecca was a scapegoat. It was a secret, dangerous thought, not ever to be shared with anyone. And Sam hadn’t really been interested in the painting—he’d wanted to see the Samurai masks. Father Muturi touched Dilly’s hair again, gently, firmly, and she thought of the river, the river’s grace and indifference. She felt the riv
er moving past her, its strong, cold muscles. She felt herself going with it. After a moment the priest spoke, issued some kind of blessing, but Dilly couldn’t really hear.

  When it was over, the guests went back to chatting and laughing and drinking tea. Dilly sat down on the sofa. For a moment, she felt Mummy’s eyes still on her, assessing, but nothing passed between them. Mummy must have sensed, decided not to make the introduction, because Dilly wasn’t hoisted over to the magazine woman. Instead, a cup of tea was handed down to her. And then a plate, bearing a whole, uncut scone, with two glistening heaps, white and red, cream and jam. Around the scone was the faded Minton pattern, a ragged botanical tangle. Dilly felt the corner of one eye dampen. Mummy didn’t say anything, but the relief, the reprieve, was overwhelming. Her hands were trembling a little as she pushed her thumbs into the soft body of the scone and split it open. She took one big piece and swabbed it through the jam and then through the cream; she lifted it and bit into it. The ducts at the back of her mouth stung and saliva flooded out painfully. She almost gagged. Then the taste came, sweet, wheaty, that safe, wonderful, family taste. Merrick had been wrong. She had tried to be unmoored, tried to live without protections, but the world was full of grotesque, frightening, ridiculous things. It was full of meaningless sorrow and contradiction. Like a sick little baby, with a perfect soul. Here—didn’t he see?—they could all help each other. Failure could be forgiven, good things shared. They could all be each other. Who you were, really, was who else you were.

  It seemed like a miracle to be left alone on the sofa with tea and food, but there she was. The party continued. Dilly ate the scone quickly, a kind of racked, grateful devouring. She licked jam off her finger. She went to the table and took another scone, heaped on cream—no one saw, no one stopped her—and sat back down with her plate. People were talking, sipping tea, having a jolly time, legs and shoes moved here and there. Her brothers and sister and Mummy circulated. The fire began to die. Father Muturi left, maybe for Kenya. He didn’t look at her and he made no goodbyes. The front door closed. A minute later the doorbell rang. Dilly looked up at Mummy to see if she should be the one to answer, but Mummy was already en route, adjusting her pale fur stole. Dilly’s duties, it seemed, were all suspended.

  She heard a muffled discussion at the door, ladies’ voices, ups and downs, trills of indistinguishable words. It was longer than the usual welcome-and-coat-off conversation, so perhaps not a party guest. Then she heard Mummy exclaim, shrilly, gracious, no! Mummy came back into the lounge with Lillian, who must just have closed the boutique. Lillian was carrying the loveliest-looking package, an immaculate silver box with a huge beige bow, probably for Dilly, because Lillian was very generous and good at remembering. She and Mummy were still talking in low tones, and Dilly heard Mummy say, well, should I announce it? Without waiting for a reply, Mummy said loudly, in her speech-giving voice, everyone. Listen, please, everyone! The room fell quiet again.

  Mummy’s expression was now the one related to dreadful news and dismay. An almost operatic gurn. Her brow was deeply rippled, mouth collapsing in the corners. Her hands were held to her chest. There’s been an accident. They’ve found, well, a body, it seems, just very close to us, down by the weir. Her eyes were extremely bright; with tears, Dilly realised. Sometimes things did actually make Mummy very upset. There were gasps of surprise and sympathy, and a few comments and questions, awful, who, when, should Peter go and lend a hand? Mummy was drawn back into the group, no, not identified yet, she was saying, expertly, though she’d known the information only since Lillian had arrived.

  Lillian set the present down on the sofa next to Dilly and perched the other side. She had on the same trousers that Dilly was wearing. The front pleat was perfect. Lillian always looked so beautiful. She smiled. Are you all right, Dilly? Sorry about the bad news. Dilly smiled too and nodded, looked back at the scone on the plate. No Sam today? No, not today. Dilly took another bite. Oh well, never mind. This is nice. Lillian’s voice fell a little. I ran into your dad on the way. He said to say happy birthday. Do you think he’ll pop in? Dilly looked up to see who was left at the party. The magazine lady and Cleo were engrossed in conversation. Peter had disappeared and Dominic was holding a bottle of champagne, unsure whether to open it, while Mummy still seemed preoccupied by the trauma.

  It was lovely—the wrapping on Lillian’s gift, the people here who really loved her, more than Sam ever would have, the second scone, feeling like giddy déjà vu. She already knew everything, could see the body laid out on the towpath, covered by layers and layers of sodden dishevelled rags, a halo of river water leaking around it. The police had cordoned off the scene, and an ambulance was parked up on the road near the punting station. Figures in white medical suits were lifting the yellow tape, stepping underneath, and carefully approaching the lump that had been dragged out of the water. They were kneeling down and gently uncovering the body, peeling off the wet clothes, lifting the heavy wet skirt of the gown away from the face, taking off pieces of rotten fruit, and the red headband, folding back the long, furred ears, and the face underneath, so peaceful and untormented, was hers.

  Who Pays?

  Beyond the village, to the east, there is forest. It is very old. No one remembers its name. It has belonged to several countries, empires, and tribes, and it has remained unbelonging, its own nation. Inside are the first trees of the world, whose leaves have learned broadness to collect light. The forest can be crossed in a day on foot, half a day with a steady horse or a donkey cart, faster if there are wolves. Whenever there are wars along the border, more wolves come.

  In the middle of the forest, where green is richest, lies a sacred well. It sits like a funnel in the floor, sloping sides, moss-lined, with a small stepped wall on which it is possible to sit and rest and peer down the hole, where space becomes dark sound. There is no rope, no bucket with which to draw and drink. The Well of Simeon. Or the Well of Mevlâna. The oldest villagers just call it the Well of Souls. They do not come here. Whoever built it, whoever raised the spring, danced, performed reversals or miracles, no one is sure. The walls inside are one hand-width wider than the tallest man’s arm-span. Its stones are the blue of other regions, carved and carried in. Blue as buried bone. Or sea-dreamed. Or star-fallen. And its water—so clear, so cold. It might bleed from the heart of the earth.

  In the spring and in the autumn, the young men of the village come. Ahmet, Selim, Sait, Nazım, Adnan, maybe with a younger eager brother, or a visiting cousin. They come with beer and salad, instruments, a bleating lamb, home-made rakı. As many as can fit in the cart, riding backward, legs dangling. The trumpet-player, Fikret, blue-eyed and endlessly teased, plays tunes as they ride. These are good friends, childhood companions. The well celebration is an old tradition, told by grandfathers and grandmothers, forgotten for a generation but, now, lived again.

  Sometimes, the young women of the village come for the first part of the evening, on borrowed horses, or on foot, single-file, taking turns to trample the grass. Eyes held for long moments, the exchange of scarves, sweet tarts and sips of beer, the freedom of twilight. This is a country between dictators, a country of momentary festivity and hope. There might be dancing. Someone might whisper a beautiful line in an ear: The wound is the place where the light enters. Or sweet, promissory names. Balım, sevgilim. All this before the tyranny of in-laws, and children, and bedroom rituals. Before the rakı the women ride home again, in darkness, carrying burning torches, scorching the low trees, leaving the young men to their longing, and their headaches.

  What the women do when they come to the well alone, at other times of the year, nobody really knows. Talk of witches, body-splitters, child-removers, though their mothers walked them innocently through the woods as infants, gathering hazelnuts. On the last day of her first blood it’s said a girl can smell truffle deep in the soil, blind, an intuitor of earth. One lumpy, fungal skull dug up, weighed and sold to a chef in the city, and there’s a fortune for her famil
y. She might even throw it in a sack and run, get away from goats and children, try her hand at a bar in Kadıköy, why not.

  It’s also said that women see things here. In the Well of Simeon, or Mevlâna, in the Well of Souls. What do they see? Futures. The only useful thing.

  This spring, it begins with a coin. Ahmet, the oldest, married for two years with two children already—his wife smells so good to him, he smells so good to her, they just can’t stop—has, for the last few seasons, hosted his friends before the journey to the forest. A preparatory meal is taken. How much ravioli young men eat! He and Halime are rolling and drying and stuffing and folding all week. Enough! When the boys arrive, Ahmet tells them that in one of the hundred pieces of ravioli a coin has been sealed, tucked up like a baby in a crib. Whoever taps his tooth on it must host dinner before the next celebration. You can keep the money, he says, buy a sack of flour. Agreed? The ravioli has a touch of nutmeg, steams in the bowls, a Bulgarian grandmother’s recipe. Yes, yes, sure, sure, they say, and the forks begin to move.